


Words Unspoken

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Depression, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Multiple Deaths, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, android afterlife, no beta we die like men, shutdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 18:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17452088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: It’s been three years since the crash. Three years, one-hundred and sixty-three days since Connor held Hank’s hand and watch him fade away. He supposes there’s some kind of irony to it, but he’s always struggled to understand this form of humor. How can it be funny for Hank to die in the same way as his son? Connor always knew Hank would pass, but he thought he had more time.More time to say the words, to let Hank know.“I love you,” he says to the empty space beside him, blankets smooth and pillow perfectly fluffed.“I know,” the reconstruction whispers back, a bad imitation of Hank’s voice.It’s all he has left and it hurts worse every time he does it, but he can’t stop reaching out for Hank.__This is a sad one. Final warning: multiple major character deaths.





	Words Unspoken

It’s been three years since the crash. Three years, one-hundred and sixty-three days since Connor held Hank’s hand and watch him fade away. He supposes there’s some kind of irony to it, but he’s always struggled to understand this form of humor. How can it be funny for Hank to die in the same way as his son? Connor always knew Hank would pass, but he thought he had more time.

More time to say the words, to let Hank know.

“I love you,” he says to the empty space beside him, blankets smooth and pillow perfectly fluffed.

“I know,” the reconstruction whispers back, a bad imitation of Hank’s voice.

It’s all he has left and it hurts worse every time he does it, but he can’t stop reaching out for Hank.

He exhales excess heat and bows to his system warnings.

_Stress levels: 97%  
Shutdown imminent_

Shutdown. Not yet. Not today.

He lets the conjured image fade, Hank’s face shuddering until it blinks out of Connor’s field of vision. How often he’s thought of shutting down and how many times RK900 talked him out of it.

“He won’t be there, wherever you go,” he meant it kindly, but it sliced through Connor like a knife. If he were human, there would’ve been a chance. He’s never given the afterlife much thought. It’s not somewhere meant for him, but, now, he understands the desperate human desire for it to be real.

Connor goes through the motions every day. He pets Sumo and tells him he’s a good boy. He feeds and walks him, then goes to work. He hunts down criminals and helps RK900 deal with Reed. _Nines_ the man insists on calling him. The best Connor can do to match it is 900.

“Good morning, Connor,” 900 calls to him and he nods. He can feel the scan but doesn’t care. He’s not at any risk of shutting down. 900 will leave him alone. There is only one thing that keeps him going. He has to find the person responsible.

It’s been a painstaking process, but Connor doesn’t need to eat or sleep. When not working a case, he follows leads. Most culminate in nothing, dead end after dead end. But now, after years of interrogations and relentless searching, one of the breadcrumbs has led him to a reliable trail.  

A single trace of blood at the scene, smeared on a broken piece of window. The driver had gotten away but not before leaving valuable evidence behind. It wasn’t in the system and no hospital had a record. Ignoring his scruples, Connor mailed off a small sample to an ancestry site.

In his email inbox, three years and ninety-two days after registering for the site, Connor has a match. It’s weak, a cousin at best, but it’s more than he’d hoped for. The audio of the crash plays unbidden in his mind and it’s a fight to silence it.

 _This is more important than your misery_ he tells himself before launching into the details. Hours later, Connor has a partial family tree and a list of likely suspects. At 900’s urging, he leaves the precinct to rest.

That night, in Hank’s borrowed home, the projection comes to him unbidden.

“I miss you,” Hank’s voice comes out of the reconstruction, robotic and wrong, but there is warmth there.

“You’re not real,” Connor whispers, wishing he was mistaken. He can see Hank standing before him, but he’s a sketch of the man he knew. This imitation lacks the force and power the living man had emanated.

When the image persists, Connor reaches out a shaking hand, “I miss you, too.”

Sumo whines from his bed in the corner of the room and Connor wonders if he can see it, too. He knows it’s madness, that Hank isn’t there, but Sumo’s eyes refuses to waiver from where the projection stands. His head follows it as it crosses the room.

It reaches a hand out to Connor’s face but no touch comes. He closes his eyes, cuts off any non-essential processors, and waits for morning.

The first two leads cooperate, but the third name on his list turns and runs when he opens the door and sees Connor’s face. He’s out of shape and Connor catches him before he makes it to his back door. He wants to beat the man until his face no longer has features but he resists. Everything about this arrest must be by the book.

There is a trial. There is a conviction. There is a brutal, cold emptiness that follows.

Connor stands outside the courtroom at a loss. He has no mission, no purpose. Vengeance sits on his tongue, a bitterness no pill can cure. It doesn’t take long for 900 to find him.

“I had hoped that would feel more satisfying,” he rests his hand on Connor’s shoulder and Connor leans into the sensation. How many times had Hank performed the action? How many times had Hank put his hands on Connor when Connor couldn’t even produce simple words.

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

They’d scrolled over and over on the marquee in his mind, but he could never say them. Hank had died not knowing. Of all the times Connor had failed, he considers that one the worst. Hank is gone, his death avenged, and Connor is alone.

“Can you hold me?” he can feel 900 about to balk, not understanding the request. “ _Please_ ,” the word comes out visceral and jagged and more human than 900 could ever hope to be. In this way, his predecessor always outpaces him.

“Alright,” he whispers, “ok.” He can feel Connor cast a projection, senses the undue stress it causes him and he wants to stop, but Connor’s smile looks genuine for the first time in years. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing, but he can tell it brings him peace.

Hank’s features settle more real and more complete over 900’s body than any simulation Connor has ever tried to produce in Hank’s empty home. He brings his hand to Hank’s face and wishes desperately to tangle his fingers in his beard, but this will have to do.

900 slots his arms under Connor’s, running them up the planes of his back before pulling him close. Connor returns the embrace, crushing his face into 900’s chest.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into 900’s shirt, and then, “I’m sorry.”

Before the android can react, can think of a single thing to say or do to stop him, Connor goes weak in his arms.

“Connor?” 900 shakes the limp android, but he knows he is too late. For the first time in his brief life, he understands the pain Connor’s carried for the past three and a half years. “Connor, please.” He sinks to the ground, cradling him in his arms, and lets out a broken cry. A serene smile sits frozen on his predecessor’s face.

Somewhere else, far away, Connor hears it and a detached sadness taps at his mind seeking entrance. He wafts his hands at it, buffeting it away.

_I have hands_

He blinks

_I have eyes_

“Hey, Con,” a large, warm hand rests on his shoulder and he turns.

_Hank._


End file.
